


your childlike eyes (your distant smile)

by gabrielgoodman



Series: coda: you've arrived at last, my friend. [1]
Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: (As in: The Character thinks about it), Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternative Universe - War and Peace, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielgoodman/pseuds/gabrielgoodman
Summary: “I don’t know, I – I’m not sure,” Wayne says honestly, watching Nick, “After all we’re sitting here and drink, and the people are laughing. Not everyone is fighting a war.”Nick’s lips curl into a lopsided smile, and for the first time his eyes are friendly when they look at Wayne and not calculating or angry, “That is true, but you fight a very personal one, don’t you.”Or, Wayne and Nick meet under different circumstances. In cold, early 19th century Russia to be exact. (War and Peace AU)





	your childlike eyes (your distant smile)

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by my obsession with The Great Comet of 1812 / War and Peace. I was reluctant to come back and write for this fandom but I _really_ wanted to write this AU out of all my million AU ideas I have for Bandstand so you have (probably) 15k of Wayne/Nick with the usual pairings on the side, and a lot of long paragraphs. Seriously. Get ready. It's two parts in two chapters. 
> 
> Remember when I said I could talk about Wayne Wright for 500 hours minimum? Well. 
> 
> I had four years of Russian in school (that I chose voluntary, I might add) and one of my closest friend is Russian, nevertheless I must note that I am not an expert on Russian. In this story, Donny and Wayne are American soldiers, the rest are Russian. In 19th century Russia only the lower class spoke Russian and most of the aristocracy/upper class spoke French, that's why those who are Russian in this story speak French/have two names: Their Russian name and the French equivalent (for some it remains the same).
> 
>  **THE DONNY NOVA BAND**  
>  Donny: /; Wayne: /  
> Julia: French: Julie / Russian: Julia (Юлия)  
> Jimmy: French: James / Russian: Jakov (Яков)  
> Johnny: French: Jean / Russian: Ivan (Иван)  
> Davy: French / Russian: Davíd (Давид)  
> Nick: French / Russian: Nikolai (Николай)
> 
> Title: Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812 - No One Else  
> Set: Early 19th Century Russia
> 
> Pinterest Board: https://www.pinterest.de/stevetrvor/war-peace-au/
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I do not own any of those characters and no profit is made with this work of fiction. This isn’t beta’d or anything and I’m no native speaker so there might be a few grammar, syntax or spelling mistakes. Feel free to adopt and take care of them.

**Part I**

 

 

**I.**

 

The room was aglow with the warm light of candles and argand lamps, illuminating the crowd of people in feverish hues, almost like liquid gold. Despite the cold Russian weather outside the mansion walls, it was warm inside, uncomfortably hot even, and Wayne tugs at his cravat and collar, snug at his throat, and he chases the tightness down with wine, tinting his lips pinkish and red, just like his cheeks. He looks out of the window, at the moonlit night and the soft snow falling down the sky, heavy clouds like the ceiling of a prison above Moscow that make Wayne anxious, as if he will never be able to leave this frigid emptiness of a city behind, will never find his way back out of the maze of ice and glass and thick wool and decadence.

Wayne despises the people surrounding him, posh and arrogant, eyes dull and glazed by their inherited fortune and careless nights at balls or opera houses. He’s not particularly fond of balls or opera houses or rousing parties because they are almost always certain to end in some kind of mess and he despises those more than anything else. As long as he wears his uniform and keeps his hair neatly combed the world won’t end. He made it through a war like this, he will make it through the rest of this dreadful night the same way. Wayne’s good at coping. Or at least he thinks he is.

Laughter rings through the room, bright and pearly and he turns around to look for the source of it. When he spots it, _her_ , he shouldn’t be surprised: it’s countess Julia and she’s a vision of dusty white, almost pink in the candlelight, and her hand is raised, held delicately in front of her mouth, but Wayne can see the smile on her lips from his angle regardless. Donny, who’s with him tonight as he is on any given day, is standing in the circle around her, eyes fixed on Julia and full of devotion. It is very obvious that he is in love with her, but Wayne can’t and won’t forget the story Donny told him in the carriage on their way to Moscow, the tale of his best friend and how he died on the field, and how he is Julia’s husband; their only reason to be in Moscow because Donny promised his friend, Mischa – Donny only ever calls him _Mischa_ , soft and sweet on his tongue and full of grief so Wayne assumes his name must be something like Michail or Michael but he’s not all too familiar with Russian names and he doesn’t bother to ask – to check in on her. They’ve been here for a month now because Donny’s injury was far more critical than they had thought. He’s been walking slowly for the past weeks, was completely bedridden for the first of their stay, Julia hovering over him with a watchful eye. He’s fine now and dressed in his finest coat, too. Julia’s blushing and leans in like she’s telling him a secret and Wayne turns away, so fast he’s afraid he’ll hear his neck snap, suddenly very conscious of what he’s doing.

Instead, he pours himself another glass full of wine and drinks it slowly, eyes fixed on the window again and leaning back in the chair he’s sitting in. No one is paying him any attention which he is thankful for, not even Julia’s mother who’s taken a shine to him, mainly though because he folds his clothes before he goes to bed and makes his bed after he wakes up in the early hours of morning. In times like these, it is very easy to care about another but Wayne refrains from doing so. He won’t get attached. Donny is the only burden he can allow himself because without each other they wouldn’t have made it out alive.

Most people around them are speaking fast French and Wayne’s own French – and Russian, a pure necessity – are only solid enough for fieldwork and conversation so he doesn’t bother to listen and try pick out any topics. From what he gathered it’s mostly just gossip anyway so it hardly matters to him and he is not interested in who is doing what with whom. He doesn’t care for the business of pleasure, not really, for his desires are buried deep within his chest under shame and regret and good old catholic regret. If he’d ever just do as lift a finger to pursue them he would be dead before he could raise his whole hand, he knows that, but he also knows that it doesn’t matter in the circles he’s in right now. He already saw two men, one of them blond with little round spectacles, Julia’s cousin, and another soldier with a curly head of hair and a slight limp, disappear into the safety of the night to do whatever they’ve been wanting to do all evening. Wayne has quickly moved his gaze whenever it landed upon them but he knows what to look for. It was all too obvious, just like Donny’s crush on the dear countess.

So, he spends most of the evening in quiet solitude, watching people linger and go by, and slowly finishing a bottle of wine all on his own. That is until a man, short and with hair so ginger it seems to be ablaze, sets foot into the room through the doors of the balcony, a cold gust of air trailing behind him, and Wayne sits up unconsciously, watching the man look around until he decides to make his way over, empty glass in his hand and eyes set on the nearest bottle of wine which just happens to be Wayne’s. He must be a military man, Wayne thinks, or maybe not. Maybe he’s a guest of countess Julia, like everyone else in this room, in one way or another. Maybe he’s an angel sent from the heaven’s above, he looks just like paintings of cherubs do, and the moonlight is glowing around him, blue and cold, unlike his hair or his skin or the redness of his cheeks. He looks unusual, ambiguous. Wayne can’t decide.

“May I?” He asks in French, and Wayne realizes he is staring at the man, has been ever since he came in. He swallows and nods, handing over the bottle the man clearly wants, following the way pale fingers curl first around the neck and then, after he’s got it secure in his one hand, around the middle of it, pouring the last of it into his glass. Wayne watches how the dark liquid sloshes around and then how the man takes a taste and nods to himself. Wayne shouldn’t watch but he can’t help himself.

The man sits down next to him and Wayne’s body acts all on itself, turning around so he can face the stranger. He’s handsome in a wild, unpredictable way but also soft in the slouch of his shoulders and the edges of his features. His nails are short and blunt and the knuckles of his right hand are bruised and Wayne wonders why. Suddenly the evening has become much more interesting.

“You’re not Russian, are you?” The man asks and tilts his head; his voice is rough like a war-worn palm, “Julia mentioned something like this, told us you were around. You’re American, right?”

Wayne doesn’t know what to say but, “Yes, I’m American. My name’s Wayne.” He is too mesmerized by the man’s voice and his intelligent eyes and the feeling that he has him all figured out already, no matter what Wayne will say or do. It’s a weird feeling, being known so intimately by someone he just met, _vulnerable_. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat because Wayne doesn’t like intimacy, not that much, and especially not when it oozes out of a stranger, or maybe he is just misinterpreting, his brain reeling with anxiety.

“My name’s Nikolai but you can call me Nick. I found that it rolls easier off an American’s tongue,” The man, _Nick_ , says and takes a sip of his wine in a fashion that suggests he doesn’t really care about it or pleasantries or anything for that matter. His eyes are solely fixed on Wayne who wonders if Nick would like it more if he called him Nikolai and if he should do it just to appease him, but then he realizes that it is unlike him to appease any stranger and that he shouldn’t care, should stop caring altogether because it is not what he does, hasn’t done for a long time. “What are you doing here?”

“My friend, he’s a friend of Julia’s husband. He’s checking in on her but got injured and it’s keeping us from travelling further,” Wayne says and steals a look as to where he saw Julia and Donny last and they are still there but Julia’s other admirers have vanished and it’s only the two of them in dim candlelight, looking like they gather the whole world between them. Donny looks like he’s not drunk on alcohol but rather on love and Wayne wants to scoff, but it is too endearing. For a frightening second he wonders if they will ever leave or if Donny will want to stay behind in this cold, cold country, under all this snow. It’s just the kind of grand, romantic gesture Donny would go for. Wayne shoves the thought aside, it doesn’t matter right now.

“No, I mean, here. In Russia,” Nick says, “What are you doing in Russia at all?” And Wayne turns his gaze on him again, considering the question and Nick’s stiff posture on the chair, unable to relax; it reminds him too much of himself so he looks at his own hands instead, one holding the wine glass, the other curled around his wrist, betraying how tense he really is in the presence of Nikolai – _Nick_. It dawns on him that he is afraid that this man will touch him, that there’s the same hint of desire curling in the pit of his stomach as in Wayne’s; men like him always find each other somehow. It is evident, just like when he bumped into one of the gentlemen he saw earlier this evening, the one with the curls, on his first day and they shared a glance and a short conversation. His name is Ivan – Jean, if you will, and prefer French like the aristocracy does – and he fought a war, too. They haven’t said anything out loud as you don’t speak about such desires but whenever Jean spoke, he had that look in his eyes, and when he moves, slowly and carefully, he does it with an air of impatience, only found in lovers who wait to be reunited.

“Fought a war,” Wayne answers and Nick stares at him for a while, then nods.

“I see. It’s all we ever do, fighting wars and drinking us mindless. Humanity is stupid that way, self-destructive and simple. But what is one to do when the world is burning besides drowning it all in wine, right?” Nick speaks quietly but his voice floats to Wayne’s ear over the noise around them regardless, and he makes French sound warm and inviting so unlike everyone else who bothers to talk to Wayne, except for the countess maybe, who does her best to make them feel welcome so far away from home – but then again Wayne doesn’t know where or what home is anymore. Maybe it is America. Maybe it isn’t.

“I don’t know, I – I’m not sure,” Wayne says honestly, watching Nick, “After all we’re sitting here and drink, and the people are laughing. Not everyone is fighting a war.”

Nick’s lips curl into a lopsided smile, and for the first time his eyes are friendly when they look at Wayne and not calculating or angry, “That is true, but you fight a very personal one, don’t you.”

Wayne freezes as if all windows just shattered and the snow is covering the floor and his jacket and his shoulders in a sheen of white; ice prickling through his veins as he’s trying not to break the glass in his hand or give in to his urge to leave the room.

“Now, do I?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, “And if I do – what do you make out of it?”

Finishing his glass of wine, Nick stands up and fidgets with the sleeves of his shirt, white and crisp despite the golden light and the slightest tint of blue from the moon that seeks to wash away the color of Nick’s hair, “I assure you I have no problem with it – I have my own wars to fight, so to speak. But if you care to find me, I’m in James’ study,” he pauses and looks at Wayne with those disarming eyes and Wayne’s lips stretch into a thin line, “Have a good night, Wayne.” The way he says his name is foreign but beautiful, and when he’s gone Wayne longs to hear it again, to bury himself in the one syllable falling from Nick’s lips and into the shared space between them, like a promise. 

He knows who James is – Julia’s cousin Jakov and Jean’s – lover, if not anything else – but they all call him James and it does come easier to Wayne and Donny, the latter spending most of his days with him, sometimes even calling him Jimmy which James only answers to with a raised eyebrow and a grunt. He’s a sweet, young man who loves to read and write letters and enjoys the matters of law far more than matters of war and who’s Julia’s closest friends; they’re almost inseparable, like twins, Julia’s mother joked one evening, and he rarely leaves Julia’s side. Wayne doesn’t know where he met Jean but they are drawn to each other like a moth to the flame or a river to the sea, and Wayne has already seen them fooling around on one occasion in the winter garden. Of course, no one knows about them, or at least no one is saying anything about it, and they both seem happy. Wayne is envious of their happiness, but only a little. If he’d ever allow himself to grow this close to another person, he’d probably be properly jealous, but he doesn’t and only envies the youth found in their innocent happiness.  

After waiting another minute, he rises to his feet and decides to follow Nick into James’ study, moving quietly through the crowd and careful not to touch anyone on his way or else he’d rather burn his skin off his bones than take another step. The hallways are deserted, the smell of smoke lingering in the air, and Wayne stumbles through them blindly – a blind man on the search for the sun. He doesn’t know what exactly has brought him here but he is curious what Nick has meant when he said he would wait in the study for Wayne – if he would be there now, or in general, any other day, and is already gone, vanished into the endless depths of Moscow, the Russian winter seizing another victim.

Something in him tells him it isn’t so – maybe intuition, maybe desire, both are traitorous – and he carefully opens the door to the study, only to find it dimly lit and warmed by a fire, Nick standing in front of a shelf and studying the books intently. He has heard the opening and closing of the door without a doubt but he remains where he is, patience not suiting him well, Wayne thinks, remembering the quiet storm in his eyes and the tremor of his hands, the way his smile formed too slowly to be an involuntary reaction to whatever Wayne said. But his shoulders remain soft, so unlike the tense set of Wayne’s own shoulders, cliffs where every wave will break, and he doesn’t turn around for another few minutes. Wayne is standing at the door, arms behind his back and hands clasped.

“Tell me, Wayne,” Again, that pause after Wayne’s name, “Why have you followed me?” Nick asks, and finally turns to lean against the book shelf, arms crossed, and those impossible eyes on him as he takes a step forward into the room. Nick isn’t clean shaven like Wayne and for the first time in forever Wayne itches to touch his cheek, feel the stubble against the pads of his fingers, against his own skin, rough and burning, like vodka.

Wayne closes his eyes and composes himself, “I think you know, Nikolai."

Nick chuckles, “That I do, that is true, but I want to hear it out of your mouth. You know, it’s a wonder we’ve only met now, I’ve been going in and out of this house for the whole time you’ve been around and even before.”

“What do you do?” Wayne asks, frowning, because he surely would have noticed someone like Nick going in and out of the countess’ house for a whole month; he finds himself very observant, it’s in his nature and what made him so valuable on the field.

“I teach,” Nick explains and shrugs, “I teach Julia’s young cousins and sometimes I help James with his studies. When I don’t teach, I play in the orchestra of the opera but only a few people know.” He crosses the distance between them, sensing how Wayne’s spine grows straighter with every step and slowing down significantly, until it must have taken hours or only mere minutes for them to be so close that Nick has to look up to see Wayne and Wayne’s hands are balled up into fists to keep himself from touching.

“You play an instrument?” Wayne perks up and Nick ducks his head – is he _blushing_? – before he answers.

“Trumpet. If I could teach anything, that’s what I’d prefer but I never get the chance,” Nick says, sounding almost angry, and Wayne is afraid he’s upset him. “But why do you want to know? Do you play an instrument?”

They are still close and it is making Wayne light-headed: the proximity, the smell of Nick – a combination of cigarette smoke, gun powder, and frigid air – the bite of his nails into the palms of his hand, and the heat of the fire. It’s been too long since Wayne has been comfortable enough to touch and let himself be touched, to be able to cope with the mess touches leave behind in their wake; on his skin, his clothes, his things.

“I play the trombone – well, I did. Before the war. I don’t know if I could do it now,” Wayne confesses. He doesn’t remember the last time he talked about instruments, music, with someone, less when or if he ever talked to anyone about it in French and so it feels new, makes him anxious, as new things tend to do, but Nick has a smile on his lips that almost looks serene, like he swallowed the moon and the stars. Like _Wayne_ swallowed the moon and the stars and every word he says will ignite the night.

Nick’s hand finds his lapel, carefully, and Wayne lets him, tries not to shrug it off. Thinks of the endless horizon and the vast sky and the emptiness of Russian winters. Thinks of wine and vodka and gold on painted walls. Thinks of anything but Nick’s hand on him and breathes through it, hard and relentless.

“So, you’re fighting more than one battle. Of course,” Nick says, but there is something in the way he watches Wayne that isn’t a rejection but an understanding and it makes it easier to gather air into his lungs. Wayne wonders how many times James and Jean have kissed here, in this study, how many times they touched each other’s lapels and shoulders and cheeks and lips and hands, how many times they have _loved_ each other in here, in the physical and emotional sense, and if anyone can love after they have gone through a war and made it out battered and bruised and barely alive.

Nick is so close, if Wayne would lean down, he could kiss him. Could just kiss him and fuel the flame of his desire, enough to make his skin crawl and set the whole city on fire. Kiss the wine off his lips, be reckless for once. Learn to be young again and not this crippled version of himself that he is now, this shell of a man wandering ghost halls, but someone who is able and ready and willing to love all consuming, someone like Donny. Someone like countess Julia. Someone who is free and who values his freedom, not someone haunted by his past. Someone who doesn’t obsessively fold his clothes and makes his bed, someone who can shed every single layer until there is nothing but raw realness, an open door, an opportunity to love and be loved in return.

“I think you should go to sleep, Wayne, and I think we should try this again,” Nick says and then lifts himself onto the tip of his toes, “May I?” he asks, and because Wayne is tired and likes to suffer, he nods.

Then there are lips on his cheeks and Wayne’s eyes slide shut and his knuckles whiten and he breathes through his nose, and then Nick kisses his lips and Wayne lets him.

“Have a good night, send my love to the countess and your friend,” Nick bids his farewell and when he’s gone it’s like Wayne has dreamed the whole ordeal, fallen asleep in the chair with too much wine and too much to think about and too little to stop him from doing so, Donny too busy courting and James too busy doing God knows what with his lover and the moonlight too alluring to not fall asleep and dream of beautiful strangers with beautiful and unusual voices and bright eyes, like the ocean on the east coast of America, who make him want to be touched and who touch him with care and great consciousness, who want to hear stories about the war and stories about what was before, who are interested in him, for once, and not his uniform, who don’t make fun of his Russian or his French or whatever comes to their mind that is particularly ridiculous about Wayne in any given moment. They always find something.

Wayne almost goes to bed fully clothed but that would make him want to claw his skin off in the morning so he changes and folds his clothes above the chair in the corner of his room by the window, staring out into the night, every trace of red or gold gone and drained out of his memory except for the striking color of Nick’s hair when he walked in through those balcony doors, like a vision – an angel from an old Italian painting, his brain fills in – come to save Wayne from the drought and lead him through the desert.

When he falls asleep, he dreams of blue light and blue eyes and of nothing else.

 

 

 

**II.**

 

A few days later Wayne finds himself in the study, reading a book about Russian war strategies while Donny is somewhere doing God knows what. He is having tea on the side and Julia’s mother has brought him pastry he hasn’t dared to eat yet because Russian food does still upset his stomach; he should be used to it, after all these months here, but from time to time he gets sick just like he did the first time. The extensive amount of alcohol he is drinking does probably not help his case but he doesn’t have it in him to stop. Sighing, Wayne lights a cigarette and turns the page of the book in his hands even though he hasn’t read anything for the past five minutes, Cyrillic letters a blur in front of his eyes, while snow is softly falling outside of the walls and windows surrounding him. He closes the book altogether and stands up to move over to the glass, his breath puffing against the window pane as he watches the garden laying still below him and stretching out until it reaches a line of trees.

With the hope to be left alone, Wayne grabs his coat from his room and goes downstairs and out through the back doors. The sky is hanging over him low and bleak and he wishes for at least a burst of sunlight once, just so he can have a taste of it again; no wonder everyone is depressed over here. Without the sun for so long Wayne can feel himself succumbing to the dreadful melancholia that lingers in his chest like a thief in the shadows of an alley, ready to rob him off all his joy. War has the same effect on him. War and Russia, they are both his greatest enemy, like a knife in the back, and for all he knows he is probably destined to bleed out, bleed to death, bleed until he can’t keep an eye open. Bleed until he is so empty, nor even air can fill him up anymore.

Wayne blinks and thinks that this is what he’s been talking about; how is anyone supposed to be happy while buried in snow with those gray clouds above their heads and nowhere to go? He lights his second cigarette and walks down the narrow path to the tree line he had spotted before, the backyard silent and so very still, the only sound Wayne’s harsh breaths and the crunch of snow beneath the soles of his feet and it is simultaneously calming and maddening and he decides in that moment that this is how he wants to die. Silent and still, a calm madness buzzing through his veins, unlike the constant anxiety he’s confronted with these days. Alone, preferably. He wants to die alone, come hell or high water, moonlight, candle light and wine and winter air be damned, no one is ever supposed to see him losing his greatest battle. If he dies and it won’t be in combat, it better be with no company but himself. He will put on his uniform and straighten the edges and he will lie down on top of his made bed, and he will stop breathing, no care in the world. Or he will make it quick and it all will end. Finally. Finally.

Distantly, he wonders if Donny would want to die alone or if he was afraid when he got wounded during the war, if he held on to life like a mad man, if his muscles were growing tired with the effort to not let go and if he ever closed his eyes. Donny’s heart is probably as stubborn as its owner and would beat until nothing is left in him to protest. He wouldn’t die quietly but he would rage, his soul forever tormented if he didn’t put up a fight, if he went without giving it all he got. For the life of his, Wayne can’t see Donny grow old and weak, he is so full of being alive that he will probably die young and in a blaze of glory and leave Wayne behind to grow even older, until he dies old and alone and weak and it will be alright. It is always alright in the end.

But then again, he knows they are far from it.

“I hope I am not bothering you,” A familiar voice says and Wayne flicks his cigarette off in a fluid motion, eyes still resting on the line of trees in front of him like they might hold universal truths. Maybe they do and he just doesn’t speak the right language, never interested enough in myths or folklore the way so many young people have been.

“Of course you don’t, James,” Wayne says and nods as the other man stops next to him, hands in gloves and gloves in coat pockets, clearly freezing despite his Russian nature.

“You look very lost in your thoughts, so I hope I am not intruding but I was on a walk and saw you standing here – well, you know. After the party I haven’t really seen you around,” James says and Wayne knows that he knows that Wayne – knows about him and Jean. As he said, sometimes you recognize one another by signs he can’t quite put his finger on because James, Jean and him – and, God, _Nikolai_ – are very different from each other but the same, too. All in all it is a very confusing matter Wayne doesn’t care to obsess over but does all the same in the end, and he wishes things would be different, easier, maybe, or his head would just be a little less crowded for a while. For a long while. For forever, preferably. He wants his head to be empty enough so there is space for him to think and not just act on impulsive whims and if that would ever happen he might be able to not straighten every crease and fold his clothes line on line, he might be a simple man with simpler needs and simpler routines, less, at least. But all of this is just wishful thinking.

“Are you growing tired of Donny yet?” Wayne asks with a smile, and James huffs. “I needed a bit time for myself, you see.”

James looks at him behind the glasses of his spectacles, breath clouding in the cold air as he speaks, “I understand it, trust me – it has not always been this easy for me.” When Wayne doesn’t answer, and doesn’t make a move, James sighs, and goes on, “I saw you leaving my study. After Nikolai left it. And I don’t know if you care for it but here is some free advice, Wayne. Do whatever your heart tells you to do and anything else comes second. In these troubling times, it is much more important to pursue happiness than to follow some kind of duty – don’t look at me like that, I know this is a concept hard to grasp for men like you but you have to trust me on this one.”

Wayne doesn’t know what to say because he is sure that James is right; after all he is talking from experience and there is nothing to be valued more than experience. All intelligence comes from experience after all, all success is rooted in the simple method of trial and error and it has never failed Wayne thus far. Now, the evening in question has been an array of solely new experiences and they have shaken him to the core, have left him restless in the day and consume him by night; the thought of Nick’s lips on him as welcome as they are uninvited for Wayne can’t decide if this is really what he wants, if he is ready to _want,_ more precisely.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” He says eventually, “And I trust you speak from a lawyer’s mind, James. Tell me, what do you know about Nick?”

It takes James a few minutes to answer and they stare at the stretch of trees and Wayne’s hands itch for another cigarette or a glass of wine, perhaps. His long-forgotten tea up in the study surely must be cold by now, lonely on the table next to the armchair.

“He’s an old friend of another friend of mine, David, and they’ve known each other since they were children. I have known him for the longest time, too, and he’s been coming and going in and out of this house for as long as I can remember. My young sisters love him but he hates teaching them – not because he hates them but he hates teaching more than you can hate anything, I assure you,” Wayne thinks about messy sheets and messy drawers and messy kitchens and all the little messes the that make up one great mess and is not so sure about that, “And he loves music. He fought in the war, briefly, until he got captured by the French, so he’s been gone, imprisoned, but he came back a while ago. Ever since then he’s been having anger issues.”

James voice is quiet but the words are loud to Wayne’s ears. _Imprisoned in war, anger issues_ – it doesn’t spare any of them, does it? This filthy war takes each and every one, drags them down until they have made a home in the darkest corners of their souls, until there is nothing left of who they used to be before, until every string of their hearts has been restrung and their souls changed fundamentally.

“He has never shown any real interest in anyone, he values his privacy, you see. But I am not surprised he has shown interest in you, you’re an enigma after all and he loves those,” James says.

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or not,” Wayne answers in all honesty, snow and cold having plastered loose strands of hair against his forehead and he wants to push them back, only to find them crisp and frozen, so he doesn’t and remains uncomfortable instead, afraid to break and splinter his hair like dry branches.

James shrugs, “You should be, I believe, and if you hold him dear to your heart in any way, I tell you to take a chance. Time is running out for all of us, Wayne, and you both deserve more than what you’ve got handed,” Then he pauses like he is considering his next words carefully, “He left a note for you in my study today, I haven’t read it of course. If you want, you can come with me to look at it and before you ask, he hasn’t said anything about it. He only told me that it was for you and that I should tell you about it.”

The icy air is slowly seeping through the fabric of Wayne’s thick coat, cruel and relentless, and Wayne, crisp and frozen like his hair, moves deliberately as he says, “Yes, that is alright. But I first wish to take a hot bath and then I will join you in your study, James.” And before he goes away further, he looks over his shoulder at the other man, who has turned around to watch him leave, a dark figure with a halo of golden hair standing before bare trees “Thank you.”

James smiles solemnly, “You are the most welcome, Wayne. Go and enjoy your bath and I am sure I will meet you; you know where to find me.”

And Wayne leaves him to warm up in the comfort of the mansion, left alone yet again to bath in his own thoughts and the anxiety that is crawling up his throat like a spider at the image of Nick writing him a note – which is so ultimately unlike Nick that Wayne isn’t even surprised. He is almost dizzy with anticipation and misses a step up to his room and at least one servant to ask to pour him a bath, but once he has shed his layers of damp clothing and is comfortably seated in hot water that is reviving his senses as much as his toes, the ceiling is spinning above him; he can’t think of anything else but Nick’s hand on his lapel and Nick’s lips on his own and he _wants_ , wants so strongly and so surely it should terrify him, should leave him positively frightened and ready to drown. It doesn’t though, for the first time since that fateful night Wayne wishes to return the favor, wishes to press his lips to every bit of Nick’s skin and wishes to hold him close, chest to chest and legs to legs, and wishes to embrace him and push him against a wall, kiss him madly and deeply. So very alive. It curls deeply in his gut and dares to consume his soul, his very being, the sheer need. So alive. Wayne has never felt anything like this before and all because of a simple note – maybe he is finally going crazy.

He takes his sweet time bathing and dresses with great care, joining James about an hour after they have parted ways in the garden by the trees. Jean is with him, sitting on the chair at the desk and writing something – what, Wayne has no idea about – and he doesn’t look up when Wayne enters the room, lost in whatever he is scribbling down on the paper with a sort of stoic precision Wayne knows just all too well. James, on the other hand, is sitting on a plush armchair by the fireplace, his feet propped up, and is reading a copy of Homer’s Iliad – or no, reading doesn’t describe it eloquently enough, he looks more like he is caressing the book, savoring every word and every page, turning it the way someone would touch pearls and silk or gold or a gun, perhaps. Careful and mindful but gentle all the same. No wonder James is a man loved and adored by many.

“Oh, come in, please,” James says after Wayne cleared his throat to announce his presence, “And close the door behind you, we don’t want to have any more company, right?” James closes the book as he stands up, straightening his shirt and vest and smoothing any creases out of his pants that his almost sloppy position might have resulted in (though it is highly unlikely to see James do anything that one might call sloppy in his life ever), his eyes twinkling with an almost mischievous gleam. He walks over to the desk with soft steps and Jean, who has stopped his writing in favor of working through various papers and letters by hand and eye, finally looks up when he can sense the other man approaching. They share a look and a few hushed words, and then Jean rises out of the chair to make room for James to roam through the desk drawers and then, after what felt like long, agonizing hours but must have been mere seconds, maybe a minute, he produces a sealed letter and smiles triumphantly.

“Here you go, as I told you that I obviously haven’t read it. If you need to send him an answer, I have enough ink and paper to last you three letters, not that I suspect it would take you so long. I don’t take you as a man of many words,” James says and hands over the paper, treating it just as carefully as he treated the pages of the Iliad, and just as mindful to not touch Wayne directly. He appreciates the gesture and nods, hopes his trust and gratefulness is enough repayment, hopes James knows. But he is an intelligent man, he must know.

James smiles, and turns around to Jean as Wayne motions to go, saying to his lover, “I will escort Wayne to his room, I’ll be back shortly. I trust to not be of any assistance anymore anyway, right? You’ll be able to handle the rest of the numbers on your own.”

Jean nods, “You go. It was nice to see you, Wayne, but I am sure we will meet each other again soon. Now, I must finish this business or the dear countess will be after my head,” He laughs at his own joke, a deep chuckle and Wayne can see James blushing a little at the sound, “Bring tea with you, will you, dear?”

“Of course, I will, love,” James says before nudging Wayne out of the study who has watched the exchange with vast interest and if he wouldn’t be simply immune to any exchange of affection in front of him, he would’ve blushed too, but he only feels a slight curiosity and the same twinge of envy he feels whenever he sees them interact. Oh, how he wishes he could be such a man, sometimes, how he wishes he could be affectionate so easily, be so sure of himself that he doesn’t question his actions or do not feel any shame nor any amount of guilt under God’s watchful eye. How he wishes he could be a simpler man. It comes to him for the second time this day, the sense of longing for less within himself.

They walk the stairs up to Wayne’s room in the other wing of the house, in relative quiet until Wayne can’t bear it any longer, “If you don’t mind, what kind of business does Jean take care of for Julia? I have never seen him work, I only met him briefly on my first day here,” He shrugs, “I would have thought he’s another one of your cousins until he said otherwise.”

James gets that wistful look in his eyes when he drops Jean’s name and studies Wayne’s face for a long moment like he’s a particularly difficult matter, one, he hasn’t figured out yet, but enticing nonetheless.

“Finances. He’s taking care of their finances, has an eye on them and sees if everything’s in check, not that we have to worry about anything. Old, inherited money, you see? But with the war going on and so many people going in and out, my aunt and dear cousin have found it more assuring to have someone look over everything. That’s how I met him, you know? Walked in here and there he was. Julia knew exactly what she was doing when she hired him, if you ask me. He’s got a way with numbers but the war has left its mark on him, like on everyone who’s went through it or perhaps all of us. Still, I can’t help but be in love with him,” James explains softly as they take the stairs to the third floor where the guest rooms are located.

“People might not approve, some might even frown upon us, but I do not care and I couldn’t care in the slightest. Speaking from the last year I’ve spent at his side, all I can say is that he has captivated my heart and my soul and that I’ve never felt like this before, that I have never been happier before, that I do not want to miss him anymore. I don’t know what my life has been before him,” he pauses, considering, “And I truly can’t remember at all. It must have been a wasteland.”

For a moment, Wayne is rendered speechless by James’ frank declaration of love for he has never felt quite as strongly for anyone. He’s loved his mother and his father but he is an only child and he’s never been practically close with his extended family and he would have never sought out company if it wouldn’t have been for the circumstances of war; if Donny wouldn’t have talked to him because he had mistaken him for his friend Mischa – apparently, they resemble each other eerily – they would have never met. If it wasn’t out of necessity, you wouldn’t know Wayne and he wouldn’t know you, keeping to himself. Sure, it could’ve costed him his life but it is not like Wayne was, _is_ , fully opposed to the idea, the possibility, the fact of death. Unlike most people, Wayne is not afraid of death nor of the afterlife; for all he knows he couldn’t care less.

“You’re very lucky,” Wayne says lastly, if simply to say _something,_ “I can tell you care about each other a great deal.”

James laughs but the laugh lacks any kind of joy, “Care? I suppose we do, but I know what _you_ are doing, Wayne, and I am telling you to stop. Stop depriving yourself. The world is full of possibilities, you just have to recognize the one that is worth to seize and I am telling you,” he points to the letter in Wayne’s hands, “This is one of the worthy possibilities. You either take it or not because whatever comes after, however good or bad it will be, the moment will always be worth so much more than the aftermath. Live a little. I know of all the risks and yet I decided to pursue my own happiness – you can only walk your own path, don’t live somebody else’s idea of life. Be selfish for once.”

They have arrived in front of Wayne’s door at last and James lays a heavy hand on Wayne’s shoulder, blue eyes wise beyond their age, “Go after your heart, my friend.”

“And you too,” Wayne says, “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“I will, Wayne,” James answers, a full stop, and turns on his heel and Wayne watches his leaving figure, the line of his back in the spare lighting and the fall of his steps on the stairs, listens for the familiar sound of reaching the second floor, always a little heavier than all the other steps, always failing the rhythm, and the predictability of it all, the simplicity, is so comforting to Wayne that he almost staggers against the door behind him, this wave of reassurance threatening to carry him away and he pushes through the door when he can’t see James anymore, hands finding the knob blindly, stumbling into the room. In there, the impending night is casting long shadows and the twilight is dipping everything in hues of pale, dark blue and cold gray. Wayne shivers involuntary and lights five candles and two lamps so he is able to read Nick’s note, there’s nothing else he needs more or that seems to be more significant, more important than this.

He settles on his bed and opens the paper; there he finds a neat scrawl of dark ink, familiar in its strange ambiguity, and begins to read.

 

 

**End Part I**

 

**Author's Note:**

> IN 19TH CENTURY RUSSIA WE WRITE LETTERS, WE WRITE LETTERS!
> 
> TBC.
> 
> More notes:  
> The Universe in which this takes place is, while it very similar to 19th Century Russia as portrayed in different versions of War and Peace, still not the same and fictionalized (more along the lines of The Great Comet of 1812). So, for example, gay relationships are not necessarily prohibited, they are only frowned upon, and in the upper circles all of the characters operate in, nobody really cares (anyway). Some snobs don't like it but in general it is accepted.
> 
> Part I focuses more on Jimmy and Johnny while the second Part will be more about Julia, Donny and (probably) Davy - and, well, Wayne and Nick, of course.
> 
> Jimmy and Julia are distinct cousins. Nick, Wayne, Johnny and Donny are soldiers.
> 
> hmu on my tumblr henribrl!


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